


It Wasn't Just the Mistletoe

by Irrevocably_Sherlocked



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Christmas Fluff, Come as Lube, First Kiss, First Time, Frottage, JLAC2015, Johnlock Gift Exchange, M/M, Masturbation, Mistletoe, Smutty Santa Exchange
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-23
Updated: 2015-12-23
Packaged: 2018-05-08 14:29:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,593
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5500721
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Irrevocably_Sherlocked/pseuds/Irrevocably_Sherlocked
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <em>Sherlock and John just stood there, seemingly frozen. Sherlock was desperately trying to think of a way out of this. There was no way he could kiss John, even a small kiss, and not have him know immediately how he felt. Sherlock could lie, and fake and sham, but there was no way he could hide this. </em>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	It Wasn't Just the Mistletoe

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Itsallfine](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Itsallfine/gifts).



> Written for the Smutty Secret Santa Exchange. And since I need fluff with my smut...this happened.

The flat was bursting with music, laughter, and noise. Fairy lights draped artfully over the mantle and wrapped loosely around the enormous pine tree nestled in the corner of the sitting room. The scent of mulled wine mixed with Mrs. Hudson’s mince pies filled the air, overlaid with the lower notes of smoky warmth emanating from the fireplace. John called it ‘festive’.

Sherlock labeled it “too much.”

Sherlock had wanted a simple night. An evening alone with John, a chance to celebrate Christmas Eve together, just the two of them, like old times. After the fiasco of last Christmas, Mary and John at his parents house, then later, the whole Magnussen disaster, he figured they deserved a quiet celebration on John’s first Christmas back at Baker Street. To be honest, he’d have thought that would be what John had wanted too, but at the last minute, John had announced he invited Molly, Greg, and Mrs. Hudson to the flat for a get-together on Christmas Eve.

“It’ll be like our first Christmas,” he had said, wistful look in his deep blue eyes, and Sherlock couldn’t say no. Not when John looked like that. Anything to make him happy.

So now here he stood, violin in hand, taking requests from an increasingly drunken Greg. He would have called off hours ago, stalked to his room and shut out all the revelry, except for John. John had seen him glance longingly at the solitude of his bedroom, and stepped in close, pressing a goblet of mulled wine into his hands, his other hand resting on Sherlock’s shoulder.

“You are staying, aren’t you, Sherlock?” He’d asked, trailing his fingers down Sherlock’s shoulder and lightly squeezing his bicep before pulling away to wrap around his own goblet. Sherlock had frozen, his pulse racing. Unable to speak around the sudden lump in his throat, he had taken a sip of his wine and nodded.

“Good,” John smiled. And winked before moving back to play host to the arriving guests. Sherlock was flabbergasted. John winked. He winked. At him. However, he had only a short time to contemplate the meaning behind the gesture before he was being drawn into the party.

“Play ‘God Rest Ye Merry Gentlemen!’” Greg yelled, lifting his goblet toward Sherlock. Sherlock rolled his eyes.

“I’ve played that twice now.”

Sherlock counted in his head, three? No four. The DI definitely was definitely going to need a hand getting home. He glanced to Greg’s left, Molly was pressed up next to him, blushing furiously, her hand lightly brushing near his knee. Ah, it appears as if it was taken care of then. He watched as Greg leaned back, throwing his arm over the back of the sofa and around Molly’s shoulders. Molly giggled, and Sherlock smirked, looking towards John as if to say,  _ you seeing this _ ?

What he saw when he glanced at John momentarily took his breath away. He was standing behind his chair, hands rested on the top, a small smile playing on his features. He looked gorgeous in the flickering mix of fairy and firelight. But it was his face that gave Sherlock pause. John was watching him with an expression so unguarded, so soft, it made Sherlock’s heart lurch.

He knew, had known for some time if he was honest, that he was in love with John. Probably since the moment they met. He’d tried to deny it, lock it away and ignore it, but sometimes the rush of affection for this man was too great, and Sherlock was overcome. Since the whole Mary affair was over and John was back home, the moments had become more frequent, and Sherlock was terrified something would crack, he would show his hand, and John would leave, unable to take the inevitable strain on their friendship. So far, he’d kept it mostly under control. But lately he couldn’t contain the thoughts that had come unbidden to him. Thoughts of John. John kissing him while they snuggled on the sofa. John pulling him close, running his hands through his curls, the warmth of his body pressed next to him. John in his bed…

There were times he thought he glimpsed some emotion, some desire on John’s part as well. Lingering looks, tender smiles reserved only for him. Brushes of fingers passing tea cups, casual touches throughout the day. But Sherlock tried to clamp down on his hopes that John felt anything for him. To be wrong would be devastating. And really, who would want Sherlock that way?

But John, tonight, something about the atmosphere, or maybe the wine, had softened his usual reserve. Tonight he was displaying something Sherlock couldn’t quite understand, at least as far as it being cast in his direction. John had been, well, flirty, and warm, and the way he was looking at him now... Sherlock felt exposed under that heated stare, and his face began to flush. He really needed to get away and consider things.

“Ehm,” Sherlock cleared his throat, “I think I’m going to call it a night, actually.”

He turned to put his violin back in his case, listening to the roar of “Oh’s” and “Aw, c’mon mate’s,” from the others in the room. But it was John’s face that stuck in his mind. He seemed almost disappointed.

Turning around again, we moved towards the kitchen, maneuvering around John’s chair before John stopped him, gently grabbing his arm. The warmth of even that small touch hot as fire where it rested against his skin.

“Are you sure you have to go?” John whispered, leaning close to be heard over the dull roar in the other room.

“Ye-yes,” Sherlock whispered back, glad his voice only broke the tiniest bit. “It’s been lovely, John, but really, I am rather knackered.”

John released his grip, his fingers lingering slightly longer before pulling completely away. “Oh, that’s- well. That’s fine.” He smiled up at Sherlock, but it held a sadness in it that hadn’t been present before.

They both moved together further into the kitchen, John pausing to place his goblet down on the table. “Would you rather I asked everyone to leave? We could put something on the telly. I’m sure there’s a Christmas movie on somewhere.”

Sherlock smiled. “No John, thank you, I’d rather be alone right now, if you don’t mind.” He had to get away this instant before he did something spectacularly stupid. John’s face was so open, so earnest, so hopeful, Sherlock thought he was going to burst. Really, he needed to move.

“Ah!” Greg hollered. “Look you two, you’re under the mistletoe!”

Sherlock  blanched and looked up. Sure enough, they were standing directly under the ominous plant. Sherlock wondered who placed that particular festive bauble there, as he certainly had nothing to do with it. Mrs. Hudson probably, he surmised, but when he looked back at John, he saw he was looking a bit sheepish.

“Did you-” he started, but Greg cut him off.

“It’s tradition! You know what you have to do! C’mon kiss!”

Sherlock and John just stood there, seemingly frozen. Sherlock was desperately trying to think of a way out of this. There was no way he could kiss John, even a small kiss, and not have him know immediately how he felt. Sherlock could lie, and fake and sham, but there was no way he could hide this.

Sherlock could hear Greg laughing, Molly’s giggle joining in. “Come on,” Greg called again, “it’s tradition, it doesn’t mean anything, just kiss him.”

John looked up at him, his eyes tracing over Sherlock’s features. He must have decided something because finally he shrugged, then pressed his shoulders back and out, military stance. John stepped closer, reached his hands up to hold Sherlock’s face, his thumb brushing over one cheekbone. “Happy Christmas, Sherlock,” he whispered, then pressed his lips ever so lightly to Sherlock’s.

Sherlock stopped breathing. John was kissing him. John. But why? Why now? Was it just the mistletoe? Would John have kissed any person he found in this spot tonight? Or was he special? He wanted to be special.

Almost as soon as it began, it was over, John pulling back, still cradling Sherlock’s face in his hands.

“That’s my favorite tradition,” he breathed, smiling at Sherlock.

Sherlock could hear some cheers and clapping from Molly and Greg, and even Mrs. Hudson, and suddenly it felt all too much like a game. A setup. And he needed to get away.

“Hmm. Quite. Excuse me, please.” He extricated himself from John’s grasp and quickly strode to his room, shutting the door and throwing himself on his bed. He was grateful the tears decided to hold off until he was alone.

From behind the closed door he could hear the sounds of a party suddenly going dead. Vague murmurs, John’s voice, scraps of dialogue reaching him where he huddled alone on his bed. He heard Greg clearly as he left the flat, “I’m sorry, John.”

“It’s alright. I shouldn’t have- It’ll be alright, I’ll…” John’s voice trailed off as he walked down the stairs, his tread heavy.

He’ll what, Sherlock wondered. And why did he sound so sad? Why was he so upset over a silly tradition? Like Greg had said, it didn’t mean anything. Did it? Only Sherlock wanted it to mean something. He wanted John to kiss him for real. Not for some stupid party trick because some plant was hanging over an arbitrary spot. He should be grateful he got the chance he did. He should be thanking whoever hung that in the flat for the chance to feel John’s lips against his, if only the once. But he didn’t have any room in his heart right now to be grateful. How would he continue on now, keep his feelings under control, now that he knew that yes, John’s lips were as soft as they looked. And now that he’s had a taste, how would he keep himself from craving more? More John? It’s impossible, and all he’d worked to preserve, lost, due to a stupid trick.

John’s tread sounded extra heavy on the climb back up the seventeen stairs into the flat. Sherlock heard the tinkling of goblets, clinking of dishes and plates being placed in the sink. John was cleaning up. Sherlock supposed he should do the proper thing and help, but he didn’t think he could face John right now. Suddenly, a large crash sounded in the kitchen, followed by a muttered curse, then a determined stride towards his bedroom. Sherlock sat up, alarmed.

A soft knock on the wood, then “Sherlock?”

Sherlock didn’t answer. He was torn between a desire to fling open the door or hide himself away until John went to bed.

“Sherlock?” John called again, “Please. I- we need to talk. Can I come in?”

A louder thump, one that sounded like John’s head resting against the door jamb. “Please?”

Sherlock sighed. He could never refuse John when he used that voice. He’d grant him anything.

“It’s open,” he croaked.

John pushed the door open and slowly entered the room, blinking rapidly to get his eyes used to the dim light. Sherlock stayed huddled in the center of his bed, legs drawn up under him, head resting on his knee, warily waiting to see what John wanted.   

“Hi,” John said, gesturing towards the edge of the bed. “Can I?”

Sherlock waved his hand as if to say “of course”, and John sat, pulling his leg up to face Sherlock.

“Look, Sherlock. I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have done that. It was a bad idea, and I didn’t want it to happen like that. So just delete it, or whatever -”

“Wait, what?” Sherlock cut in, raising his head to look at John and narrowing his eyes. “What did you say?”

“I said just delete it, and I’ll forget -”

“No, before that. You said ‘you didn’t want it to happen like that’. Want what to happen?”

John looked away, but not before Sherlock glimpsed a strange mixture of emotions cross his features. Sadness, amusement, and guilt.  And like that, Sherlock began to hope.

“Well, I,” John began, rubbing the back of his neck, “um. The mistletoe.”

“Yes.”

“It was my idea.”

“Oh.” And the hope was gone, replaced with the bitterness of disappointment and a touch of jealousy, if he had to name it. “So you were hoping to catch someone under that spot. Molly, I suppose? Or was it the DI? Funny, I didn’t think Geoff was your type, but no matter. Sorry you had to suffer with me.” Sherlock pulled his legs up tighter under him and turned his face away from John’s. So it was just a trick. And it wasn’t even meant for him.

John exhaled sharply. “What? No! First of all, It’s Greg by the way, and he and Molly are together in case you hadn’t noticed. And yes, I was hoping to catch someone under that spot tonight. Someone I’ve desperately wanted to snog for some time now. I just didn’t expect it to be a bloody floor show!”

Sherlock’s heart was beating frantically. Could John really be saying-? He had to know for sure. He turned his head back, capturing John’s eyes with his own. “Who?” he whispered.

John smiled, leaning closer to place his hand on Sherlock’s cheek, like he had done earlier, his fingers pressing ever so slightly into inky curls at Sherlock’s nape. “Someone special. I’d hoped to catch him in a private moment. Just the two of us. The mistletoe was just a convenient excuse.”

Sherlock leaned into John’s touch, closing his eyes, and rubbing his face along his palm, almost cat-like. It was too good to be true. John wanted him. Had wanted to kiss him. Did he still? He forced his eyes open and shifted nearer to John on the bed, unfolding his legs and moving closer until their faces were nearly touching.

“This is a private moment now, John. Or does it only count under the mistletoe?” He purred.

“It was never just the mistletoe, Sherlock.”

John leant forward, and Sherlock met him halfway, meeting in a tender kiss. Sherlock sighed, parting his lips, and John immediately pressed in, licking the sound from Sherlock’s mouth.  Sherlock threaded his hands through John’s hair, tilting his head to slot their mouths together, the kiss quickly turning heated, their tongues twirling together. Sherlock finally pulled back when the need to breathe became too great to ignore, resting his forehead against John’s.

As many times as he’d imagined this moment, he found he was not prepared for this, the feeling of John, in his bed, kissing him with such abandon. The feel of John’s hands threading through his curls, his lips trailing kisses down his jaw, his neck. It was delicious, and heady, and Sherlock needed more.

John pressed open mouthed kisses to Sherlock’s collarbone, biting gently, and Sherlock moaned, arching his neck to encourage more of John’s explorations. John moved lower, flicking his tongue to taste his neck, sucking lightly at his suprasternal notch. Sherlock groaned and grasped John more firmly, dipping his head to recapture those wandering lips. There was nothing chaste about this one, it was hot and hungry, and Sherlock felt he was being devoured, arousal beginning to pool hot and heavy in his groin.

“John,” he panted when the broke away again, shifting his body so that he was leaning back against the headboard and bringing John down with him. John threw one leg over both of Sherlock’s, straddling his hips, and leant down to suck Sherlock’s lower lip into his mouth. Sherlock arched his pelvis, gasping when he felt a hardness matching his own. He trailed his hands down John’s back, over each spinal joint, lower and lower, until they finally came to rest on John’s arse, pulling him flush against his body, connecting them from chest to pelvis. John growled low in his throat and rolled his hips, the move bringing their erections into alignment.

“Christ, Sherlock,” John gasped, rolling harder against Sherlock.

“John, I want…” Sherlock whined, arching his hips, desperate for more friction on his aching cock.

“What do you want?” John asked, peppering kisses along Sherlock’s jaw.

“You.”

John pulled back, and threaded both hands into Sherlock’s hair, staring intently into Sherlock’s eyes. He smirked, “You don’t know how long I’ve wanted to hear those words.”

Sherlock stared back, brow furrowed. “You mean that. You have wanted this.”

“Oh Sherlock, so much. Shall I show you?”

John leaned down and trailed kisses along Sherlock’s jaw until he got to Sherlock’s ear, sucking and nipping at the lobe. He swirled his tongue around then pitched his voice deliberately low and whispered, “Should I tell you how I’ve dreamed of that pale skin, flush in desire? Or how I’ve wondered if the skin on your neck will bruise a different color than than your inner thighs when I suck marks into your flesh? Or what sounds you’d make with that sinful voice as I suck you down and learn the taste of you? Or what that mouth would feel like wrapped around my cock, as I take my own pleasure from your lips? Hmm?” He pressed a his lips to Sherlock’s neck, chasing a pulse point. “What do you want me to show you first?”

“Oh, God, John,” Sherlock panted, John’s words driving him further towards the brink. He turned his head and captured John’s lips again, reaching between them to palm John’s erection through his trousers. How he had desired for so long to feel the weight of him in his hand, on his tongue, fantasies he never thought he’d have the chance to explore. Knowing that John shared his desires made him desperate for more.

John growled and pressed his hips forward, filling Sherlock’s hand with his length, subtly flicking his hips. Sherlock trailed his fingers upwards, lightly tracing the outline of his length through the material before deftly undoing John’s flies enough to slip his hand in and grasp John’s cock. John gasped and bucked his hips, reaching behind Sherlock to brace himself on the headboard. The angle was all wrong, but Sherlock couldn’t care less, it was enough he was touching John. He ran his thumb through the slit, wiping away the bead of pre-come gathered there. He couldn’t resist a moment longer, he pulled his hand out of John’s pants, and sucked his thumb into his mouth, closing his eyes and moaning at the musky taste of John.

He opened his eyes again to find John’s hot on his, heavy lidded and smouldering. Sherlock pulled his thumb out of his mouth with an obscene pop, and John’s eyes narrowed further, his breathing heavy. As if a switch was flipped, John attacked his mouth, sucking on Sherlock’s lips, his tongue. He pushed Sherlock fully down on the bed, and settled on top of him, once again bringing their erections together. Sherlock could only hang on for the ride as John undid the fastenings to his trousers, lifting his hips enough so John could pull them down and free his cock. John wrapped a hand around Sherlock’s penis and Sherlock cried out, arching up into John’s hand, the pleasure too much to bear.

Sherlock pushed down John’s jeans and pants until John’s cock was free, and both men moaned as their naked lengths rubbed together, rutting against one another. Sherlock was frantic for more, he reached between them and took them both in hand, rolling his hips harder against John’s.

“Fuck, Sherlock,” John grated, smearing kisses against Sherlock’s cheeks, his neck. He reached down and grabbed Sherlock’s thigh, encouraging him to wrap his leg around John’s hip.

The slide was easier now, they were both close and leaking, the change in angle a delicious ecstasy.  Sherlock knew he wasn’t going to hold out much longer. He tightened his grip, and John’s rhythm faltered, he bit down hard on Sherlock’s collarbone as he came, his come spurting between them and coating Sherlock’s hand and belly.

“Oh, John, yes,” Sherlock cried out, releasing John and using his release to provide extra lubrication for his own cock. He raised his hips off the bed, fucking into his fist, John’s weight on his legs warm and wonderful. He opened his eyes to find John watching him, that softness mixed with hunger that pushed Sherlock over the edge.

“That’s it, Sherlock. You’re so gorgeous, I’ve got you, let go for me.”

“Oh, John, fuck, yes…” His release claimed him, white hot and sparkling, his vision blurring around the edges. He was dimly aware of John holding him, pressing soft kisses to his temples as he floated back to earth. He held on for dear life, grasping to John’s arms, his back, his hips, never wanting to let go.

Finally coherent enough to open his eyes, John was waiting for him, leaning down to slide their lips together once, twice before pulling away.

“Hmm. I think I found a new favorite tradition.” John said, wicked glint in his eye.

Sherlock laughed, “You know, I think I might have just have developed a newfound fondness for mistletoe, myself.”

John giggled, then sat up, looking at the mess between them. “Looks like we need a cleanup.”

“Mmm, quite. Fancy a shower? You still have more to show me after all.”

“Do I? Well, let me get on that, then.”

Sherlock smiled and leaned up to press his lips to John’s before pulling away with a contented sigh.

“Happy Christmas, Sherlock,” John whispered.

“It is now.”

 


End file.
